


London Grammar

by Sphairistike (fugues_of_our_own)



Series: Fedal 2018 [2]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Autumn 2018 Angst, Gen, Injury Recovery, Late Night Conversations, Laver 2017 Nostalgia, M/M, Rafa with the boundaries, Remembered Sex, Roger with the yearning, Tour Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-11-10
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16416797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fugues_of_our_own/pseuds/Sphairistike
Summary: 1. Roger wants something he shouldn't; Rafa remembers something he doesn't.2. Rafa returns home; tennis politics follow.A collection of 2018 autumn reveries. Written whenever the boys have a Moment, up to the 2018 ATP World Tour Finals. Even though Rafa's now pulled out, gurgh.Inspired by London Grammar’s music; my go-to for melancholy romance.





	1. May the Best

**Author's Note:**

> Apart from reported facts or public statements, this is all made up.

* * *

_Kind hands make simple work, you see_

* * *

** US Open 2018, New York **

They arrive on different days but both think the same as they walk into the New York air: this is going to be hot.

In the early stages of the tournament, their paths don’t cross. 

The first, unspoken, reason is their agreement to keep emotional distance. 2017 had reminded everyone how excited they got in each other’s presence, culminating at the Laver Cup with the kind of teasing speculation Rafa hated to deal with. So to avoid extra stress, they had decided to minimise public interaction.

The second, more practical, reason is being on different sides of the draw, playing and practicing on alternate days. Each man’s his own island, generating unique tides and breezes; warm-up routines, entourages, sponsored appearances: nowadays, their requirements are consuming, and rarely complement each other.

So there are only glimpses in the first week: 

Roger passes Rafa talking with his racquet stringer, back turned, features animated by technical discussions and in-jokes and likely some ongoing La Liga debate.

Rafa spies Roger during one of the GOAT’s daily press congregations — taking advantage of his confined position to dwell on his newly-washed hair, his cool-casual stance, the way his smart grey blazer elevates the white t-shirt and sweat pants. All Uniqlo, Rafa guesses; all looking more expensive than that. Rafa knows the same on him would look a mess, and he smirks. Roger catches that, and is stilled for a moment, insecure over what’s amused Rafa; half-frowns in response, then re-focuses on the reporters, before any of them trace the object of his attention.

* 

Mostly, when they see each other, it is on TV. They watch with peculiar intensity, minds on twin tracks; wishing the other well, while constantly reading patterns, noticing innovations, prying for weaknesses. It’s a subtle and peculiar balance; willing your friend to thrive, waiting for your rival to fail. They’ve gotten used to holding contradictory desires in the same bodies.

* 

They see each other’s Quarter Finals. By this stage there’s time to focus on the other side of the draw.

On Tuesday, Rafa watches Federer drop to Millman, falling off a cliff of ability and concentration as humidity strangles the court. Watches him take the defeat pragmatically, too tired to be reflective; accepting his downfall with the quick calculation of someone who can rise again.

On Wednesday, Roger watches in contrast, as Nadal wrestles with the gods, turning his match with Thiem into a transcendental experience. Five sets of existential combat, refusing to lose. Absorbing and returning the qualities of his opponent. Immortalising every point. Suffering his way to salvation. It’s two in the morning when Nadal points to the sky in ecstatic pain, and Roger is freed from the spectacle, wrung out from nervous exhaustion, tears of his own loss provoked by the relief of Rafa winning, and swelled by awe at his outrageous example.

*

He invites Rafa over to his hotel and Rafa agrees quite quickly. That’s an alarm for Roger; there’s usually a few hours where Rafa reviews his schedule and discusses timings with Carlos and, more often than not, tells Roger he can’t, not before the next match. The Wimbledon visit had been an exception; a ceremonial need to jointly reminisce. But New York hasn’t given them such shared history; Rafa wouldn’t have agreed for sentimental reasons. It’s most likely because he feels it won’t make a difference. 

Roger knows the pattern by now: Rafa’s defeats are germinated in his epic victories.

He waits on the balcony of his suite and samples this metropolitan summer: fusion cooking, cooling rubber, subterranean steam. The temperature is still mid-twenties after dark, but he’s used to heat from Dubai and is comfortable in a sweater and jeans. It was the humidity which did the damage. At least up here it isn’t so oppressive. Up here they’ll both have a chance to breathe.

The doorbell chimes. He walks barefoot over the decking and appreciates, suddenly, the sensation of being stronger, fitter, more youthful than most men in their late thirties. It’s only his singular achievements which make him feel old.

He opens the front door to Rafa and extends an expansive, hospitable arm. _Come inside_.

Rafa grins and slaps him on the waist, walking past without “hello” or embrace. He doesn’t look like he was on site until three this morning; more like he just got off a two-week holiday. Maybe it’s the tan. Or maybe he’s trying to conserve energy.

He noses around for evidence of Roger’s family — slightly critically, never fully hiding his Spartan judgement of his opponent’s foibles. Roger takes these occasional audits with equanimity — even cherishes Rafa’s pushiness as a sign of trust, knowing he would rarely be so forthright with others. When complete, Rafa’s eyebrows deliver his conclusion: Roger has reserved this suite — this decadence of rooms — all for himself. Then he notices the open balcony door, is called by the view, and disappears though the glass.

Roger gets a Diet Coke and Perrier from the mini bar, grabs some nuts as well, and wanders over the decking to where Rafa, instinctively, has chosen the chair Roger imagined him in. He takes his place next to him, unfurling into the wicker and leather seat. There’s something he wants to ask. He rubs the callous on his palm, and wonders how to begin.

Rafa does it for him. ‘I gonna lose tomorrow,’ he declares.

Roger thinks he’s heard wrongly; then his shoulders sink as it clicks into place. ‘The knees?’ 

Rafa gives a long-suffering eye-roll, shaking his head, exhaling through his nose; all meaning: yes, the knees. He rips open the nuts and scoffs a handful, aggressively casual. He’s still in press mode, Roger realises; afraid of complaining, seeming weak. The heat of disappointment has been compacted into the more sociable ember-burn of frustration. When he gets home again, Roger knows, it will flare more overtly. Only Mediterranean blue will cool it.

Roger pops the coke, then twists the cap off his own water. His throat is dry so he drinks. ‘Is that why it took so long, with Thiem?’

Rafa swigs a lot of coke, finishing with an extravagant gasp of satisfaction. He replaces the can on its condensation mark, and stifles a burp. ‘You watched our match?’ Roger usually switches off from a tournament after he's dropped out; though there are exceptions.

‘Yeah. I think it's another modern classic.’

Rafa shoots him a look; realises Roger’s being straight. ‘Well. It take at least an extra set because he play so well. Bageled me, no?’ He laughs in mild appreciation. ‘Embarrassing.’ His leg is bouncing now; partly caffeine, partly impatience surfacing after hours of pretending to reporters, staff, other players. ‘But when I feel it the problem in my body, all my options—’ he narrows his fingers to a point ‘—and I do not have the confidence anymore. Need a different strategy then; never the better or more efficient.’ His palms open to the sky, and weigh heavy options, like an ancient sage. ‘Is winning the match, but losing the war, no?’

‘Yeah.’ Roger drinks. He has nothing to add. He wants to commiserate, but doesn’t have the capacity to sympathise, not really. Rafa’s experience has been the counterpart to his; otherwise their careers would not have been inextricable. There's a lot Roger doesn't feel qualified to comment on. Acute versus chronic physical problems are different species of adversary, and Roger's injuries — however frustrating — have been temporary and unconnected.

In the pause Roger leaves, Rafa’s body softens. His will dissolves. His arms droop either side and his shoulders sink back into the chair. His eyes shimmer as he looks into some dark Roger can’t see. His throat is thick with uncried tears; he grimaces and tries to swallow them away.

There’s nothing Roger can say to make it better, so he doesn’t. They are pioneers who've reached the tops of different mountains — can only wave at each other from their summits. Can only watch if one of them loses his footing and plummets.

The wave of grief fades enough that Rafa closes his eyes and sighs. Some tears spill but he dismisses them with the backs of his fingers. He grips his temples in one hand and then that’s it; he’s recovered himself. ‘Sorry,’ he whispers.

Roger wants to close his arms around him. But he won’t. ‘I invited you to say…“well done”, I guess. And...I wondered if you were dealing with something.’

‘Wanted to see you.’ Rafa doesn’t expand on that. He moves the conversation on instead. ‘And…I was sorry for you too, Roger.’ He’s always very blunt with his commiserations; delivers them in the same factual way as his compliments. ‘Not a good feelings, to lose like that.’

Roger nods. ‘I don’t like…not enjoying it. I always _want_ to be out there, you know?’

‘Yeah. Actually, thought Novak was gonna go down in the heat, earlier on. Was, erh, against Sousa? But,’ Rafa shrugs, ‘he is finding his way again, no?’

Roger doesn’t comment. If these last two Slams are any indication, the “way” is: Roger goes out in the Quarters, Rafa falls in the Semis, then Novak takes the crown. His lips seal, shutting the thought away. Beliefs like that get you beaten months in advance.

‘So. No family here with you.’ Rafa’s staring at his coke can, waiting for the right answer.

Roger doesn’t give it. He pushes back into his chair, resolute. ‘I need my space, sometimes. Some losses... You know.’

Rafa swipes the ring around the metal; to and fro, to and fro. ‘Hm. Some. But, not this much space for you, I think.’

He’s edging closer to a nerve Roger doesn’t want exposed. His irritation flares. ‘I could say it’s none of your business, Rafa. If I was feeling rude.’

'Hm.' He takes another drink. Then, ‘You don’t want to talk about this.’

‘You’re so interested in what rooms I book? Come on.’

‘Why I am interested?’ Rafa watches him with resolute scepticism. ‘Coz you invite me to them, Roger.’

‘What do you mean?’ Roger’s heart rate’s up, his breathing flustered. He hates himself for this lack of control. But it tugs at him; the edge of a merciless current. ‘I “invite you to them”? So you wanna talk in the hotel lobby, mit— with the cameras every minute? I thought you were sick of this Fedal thing.’

‘Roger.’ His look says, clearly, _no bullshit now_.

That’s another thing that has changed: Rafa can be confrontational when he thinks a situation requires it. Roger doesn’t know whether that indicates more or less intimacy. Either way, he’s clutching at air. When he swallows it’s louder than his words. ‘Fine,’ he admits, almost silently. He feels Rafa x-raying him. He looks away, at something he doesn’t see. ‘I don’t know. Yeah.’

‘You get this room for us,’ Rafa confirms — more gently than he expects.

‘Not for—’ Roger stops. He doesn’t know what for.

‘For one night, no?’ Rafa guesses, his voice wavering slightly. Rafa understands; doesn’t need to say it’s not going to happen. Even Roger knew that, while he was putting two thousand dollars on his credit card.

Their eyes catch together, then retreat. There’s a poignancy neither knows what to do with. For a while they commune in silence. Then Roger moves them on; the room mistake acknowledged and forgiven by those few awkward seconds.

‘Honestly, Rafa. I just—’ Roger’s hands amass the air in front of him, indicating a growing tangle of topics. 

Rafa interprets the helpless gesture cautiously. ‘Things they feel complicated,’ he offers. ‘But, you have just lost a match. Is every time what I feel.’

They both know a loss is a symptom, not a cause. Yet Roger remains patient.

‘So,’ Rafa continues, ‘yes they are real, the other things — but you just gonna feel them much stronger now. Is all.’ 

‘Hm.’

Rafa sneaks a glance without turning his head. ‘But— Everything is okay with— At home?’

Roger cycles a breath. ‘It’s— Yes. Well—’ He frowns, then nods. ‘No; it’s good.’

‘Okay.’

‘And…you?’

His tone is respectful; he never complains about his nearest. ‘The same. Always the same, Roger.’

Roger smiles. ‘You’re good at that.’

‘Is how I am brought up. Much as I can, I try to be what I was taught.’

‘Hmm. Yeah.’ Roger wishes he had another drink; something unhealthy. But he hasn’t drunk for a week and thinks he’d better keep it that way. He reflects on what Rafa “was taught”. ‘Don’t think I would have done well at your Academy, if it’d existed at the time.’

Rafa gives a skewed shrug of agreement. He’s heard about young Roger’s tantrums; he’s also seen grown Roger sulk and rant. There’s a reason Roger’s talent was labelled “artistic”; the same reason he was used as a comparison for Nick. Kyrgios is what would have happened if Roger’s Dad hadn’t left his brilliant, brattish son at the tennis centre and told him to make his own damn way home. Or if Roger hadn’t watched the footage of himself against Hewitt and decided to quash the racquet smashing in ’96. Silly how the media cast him as the cool head on suave shoulders. Rafa knew the man, not the product. The man was like a mountain: iconic and flawless from afar, but really a complex of whims and particulars.

Roger finishes his water. He sets the glass bottle back down on the table, then tilts the base and rolls it about. ‘Sometimes I do need to go off the rails a bit. Always been that way.’

Eventually, Rafa stills the bottle with his hand. ‘Rails have been good for you.’

'Yeah, I just— can’t do it all the time. Not like you. Only thing that stops you is injury. I think you’d play everything if you could. Win everything, probably, too.’ 

When Roger starts rolling the bottle again,  Rafa confiscates it beyond Roger's arm span.

‘You want me to be your sports psychologist?’ Rafa faces him; eyebrows set to sarcasm. ‘Is not my job to help you win.’

‘No. No fun if it was.’ Roger’s index finger strokes his chair arm; his only remaining sign of agitation. The knuckles flex, rising and falling, rising and falling. The rest of him is still. His gaze melts into the evening light, shadows obscuring his expression. ‘Really, I’m only happy if I’m winning. I mean, I like to play. And all…’ his hand gives a conductor’s wave, acknowledging the orchestra ‘…the polite stuff. But if I’m not winning, I’m— Who am I?’ _Someone who used to win._ ‘Though the expectation’s still there. Even when I struggle and lose, this expectation that it’s going to be easy. That it should be.’

Rafa dismisses this notion with a huff. ‘Still they think it is magic for you.’ A touch of tension there. ‘Like you born to play, to rise to the top — no other outcome.’

‘They think that about you too, Raf. You just don’t listen to it.’

‘About me? Is all about the work. The hours, the strength, like still I am some dumb kid running around. Like I do not think or act with, erh, efficiency. With you, is always the _grace_ , the _beauty_ …’

‘You’re graceful, to me. You’re beautiful, to— watch.’ He clears his throat. ‘We all know that.’

‘Is not my persona though, no?’

‘And that pisses you off?’

‘Yeah,’ Rafa says, veil down. ‘Yeah it piss me off. Just like it piss you off no-one think you work.’ He drains his coke, and reduces the can to a disc between his palms.

Roger is struck by that neat compression. There’s a pang to follow Rafa on a night out, to see him do that again; maybe some raucous Spanish gamble, like the Armada after Davis Cup wins. Roger’s seen the footage of Rafa grinding to a booming club anthem, beer aloft, welcoming affection from Feliciano, from Marc, from anyone, really. Rafa’s a prize cat when he’s drunk, louche and languid, absorbing admiration. 

Or maybe further back, with oldest friends; the ones who’d been bored enough together to learn tricks with cans and bottles and teenage paraphernalia. The ones who’d known Rafa as a local kid, before his anxieties had formalised into tics, before his desires had been so thoroughly schooled. 

Or furthest back, little Rafa: the boy on the boat, taking the wheel with noble concentration. The ambidextrous prodigy, swinging around the court with a racquet dangling to his ankles. The black bowl haircut, flopped over that anxious face… 

Roger can never meet these Rafas. 

There are so many things Roger can’t do now. He wants to think of Time as an opening door, a way to welcome more in. But sometimes, he just hears slamming — the extinction of possibilities. 

How can he recover what he’s lost, without losing what he has? Probably there’s a Spanish proverb for that; some established barfly would instruct him pithily over a tinto: _you cannot reclimb a mountain without again suffering her heights_.

Roger feels himself silently assessed. He refocuses to find Rafa’s watchful eyes travelling his body. ‘I’ll feel better, soon. It’s just after Wimbledon, and Cincy, I—’ He lifts a smile. ‘Maybe I should come to the Academy for a bit.’

Rafa’s still watching. ‘To…visit?’

‘To train with the others,’ Roger jokes. ‘See if I can get back on track.’

Rafa relaxes into the diversion. ‘Yeah sure. You wanna join in the drills? Sometime we need another ball kid.’

‘Hey—’

‘Or you could be like a history teacher, for the single backhand.’

Roger raises his palm in dismissal. ‘Forget it. You couldn’t afford me.’

‘Cannot solve your problems with money, Roger. Toni will tear it up in front of you, I promise.’

‘Well I wasn’t imagining Toni teaching me.’

‘He’s there. Better you watch out.’

That’s it for now; the joke ends and neither of them talks about Roger really coming back to the Academy. Not this year, when they’re still planning to keep their distance.

They drift into the quiet peace of long friendship; two figures silhouetted against the nightscape. Their brands, obligations, profiles fallen away. Here are the essentials of them, two nobody boys, sharing simple moments. This had always been Roger’s favourite thing about Rafa and him; that together, alone, they were perfectly ordinary. To see them now, you would only suspect them of contentment; not great success.

When Roger looks at his friend he finds the same smooth unhurried enjoyment of the moment. But Rafa shifts under his gaze— so he smiles gently, and gives it an excuse. ‘Was just thinking whether you’ll coach.’

‘Probably. At the Academy.’

‘No, on tour. In the future.’

Rafa huffs his defensive laugh; that good-natured rejection of a premise. ‘Don’t think they gonna want me, no? The new guys.’ He extends each leg in turn, testing muscle tension. ‘They have a different feelings about the work.’

By which he means, _no work ethic._ Roger flicks his eyebrows in amused interpretation. ‘Sure, I can’t see Sascha sweeping a court. But some of the younger ones, you know.’

‘Well,’ Rafa corrects himself. ‘Is maybe Dominic. But he don’t gonna need me, I think. Will be beating me soon.’

Actually, Thiem beats Rafa once a year; that’s their Spring ritual, whenever Rafa’s wrung too many clay victories from his body, and needs an honourable exit. But Roger knows what Rafa means, more precisely, by “beating me soon”: he means the French.

‘Hmm,’ Roger reflects, trying to be objective — quickly failing. All he sees is Nadal, wreathed in Parisian gold, the everlasting champion, the icon. ‘I don’t think so.’

It’s like Rafa’s accessed his fantasy. ‘You like it this romance, Roger. More than the real thing. The real thing is, I lose more every year. I lose it the speed, the time of recovery, the — How you say? Agilidad?’ He gives a pragmatic shrug. ‘And they gain the confidence.’

_They_. Roger turns his head at that. It’s rare for Rafa to let his modesty slip. _Him_ ; _then everyone else, lined up to try_. Roger envisions some ancient Rafa, tested in public ritual: clay-soaked, solitary, taking each contender with exhausted fatalism…

‘What you are thinking about?’

‘Huh? Oh.’ Roger slides a smile. ‘Maybe an idea for Laver Cup.’

Rafa’s earnest. ‘Yeah? What?’

‘Well, I’m not sure we have the facilities. We’d need, like, thirty degree sun and a Philippe Chatrier-size court. Or an amphitheatre.’

Rafa’s face clamps into a frown. Even with Roger, he’s never quite sure if a joke’s at his expense. ‘You are making a clay court event for the Laver?’

Roger reaches for his shoulder, in light apology. ‘No. I was joking. It’s supposed to be Europe versus World. Not Rafa versus Everyone Else, you know.’

Rafa shifts under the compliment. Discomfort. A little pleasure. ‘Roger. You know I do not like it, talking this way.’

‘Right.’ Roger’s voice is warm and playful. ‘What if I like it, though? Telling you how great you are? Watching you have to take it?’

Which… came out with a spin he didn’t intend.

Rafa exhales a startled laugh, which fades into uncertain silence. But he doesn’t voice another objection.

Roger has a reckless surge of bravado. ‘Maybe there needs to be someone to tell you. Not a fan, you know. Someone you have to listen to.’ He can’t see Rafa’s blush in this light, but he notices the speed of his chest; rising and falling, rising and falling. 

‘Yeah?’ Rafa’s throat’s tight. ‘You think I have to listen to you?’

‘As much as I have to listen to you.’ That equation is clear to Roger; for years he’s felt the calm inheritance of his role in Rafa’s life.

Rafa has the converse sense of place and purpose. He’d been the only one to coach Roger in the first Laver Cup, landing like his daemon on his shoulder, to tell him what he already knew. No longer on opposite sides of history. The polarities of the tennis world collapsed. Having Rafa coach him, on court, was so perverse and delicious it had made Roger want to pull Rafa down to the bench and claim him in front of millions. _I know him. He knows me. Better than any of you know us._

But Rafa is cautious. He thinks their tennis connection is as seductive as quick sand. That they cannot spend too long dwelling on it. They must go lightly, and think only of saving themselves. Roger thinks he’s right. But sometimes, on nights like this, Rafa lets them stray a while.

And Roger takes liberties for them both. ‘I want you to hear it from me.’

And under the guise of a complaint, Rafa invites him in. ‘So what you gonna say me, Roger? That it is so boring and bad for tennis if I win the clay? Could listen to the commentators for that.’ Despite the dismissive tone, he’s slightly breathless with anticipation. Leaving space for whatever happens next.

Roger inhales deeply; turns off his fear of consequence, and lets the words flow. ‘That…when you step onto a clay court, I’m thinking “I wonder what this other guy’s got, it’s going to be interesting to see what he’s worked on, what he thinks his tactics are”.’ 

He’s been in locker rooms for that, has seen all those dismal pep talks — coaches mouthing platitudes about positive mental attitude, about believing. His mind reverts to its earlier image: Nadal rises from his latest kill; the crowd brays for its gladiator; the piss streams down the leg of the next opponent. 

‘The first few plays, you know, you’re working him out, I can see you watching. Points go past you and he thinks, oh maybe, great, I got him on a bad day. He’s starting to believe “why can’t it be me?” And the crowd like it, you know. He gets used to the attention. 

‘Then there’s something he thought he put away — and he’s high again, right? Thinks the applause is for him — but a moment later he hears the score called, and realises you’ve hit a running cross-court backhand off his winner, something that just was inconceivable to him. And now, he knows what the crowd really wants; they only want him to make it hard for you, to raise you up even more. And he watches you walk back to the line, with your face, you know, down and intense, like you do. Like, “This is normal for me. Keep coming.”

‘So then, of course, his hope drains away. He realises he’s been brilliant and shown his best but you’ve just…absorbed it. So the next thing, he’s broken. And you’re finding your rhythm, making those corners, those lines. Not even putting on a show, because you just can’t help it, really. It just flows from you, this understanding. Like there’s a spell on court.’

Rafa doesn’t move. He schools his breath to come gently, deeply; trying to relieve the tightness in his chest without breaking Roger’s reverie.

‘But of course — against a true opponent, we get an even better Nadal. The real you. You go up a gear. You show us all what’s possible on that surface. Like no-one ever knew what tennis was before, but then they saw it, really, and thought “Wow. Okay. There’s no word for this. Just…shut up and be grateful.”’

Rafa’s studying his fingers. When it’s clear Roger has no more to say, he swallows and tests his throat with a small cough. ‘You know— I used to talk it these things, about you. When I see you, before…’ Before he had to deal with with Roger’s game, rather than just admire it.

Roger grins. ‘Bet Toni loved that.’ He is flooded with nostalgia. He never sees Toni anymore. Toni, who’d formed an integral part of their story; the bear they’d had to outwit to get their honey.

‘Yeah Toni, of course he tell me off.’ Rafa smiles, strained. ‘He thought I could not beat you, if I think like that. But he felt that way about you, too. Was why he needed to be strict with me, no? Otherwise we just make it the Federer Fan Society.’

‘Looks like it only inspired you to beat me.’ Roger’s smile fades, and he lowers his chin to his chest. ‘But— Do you still…’

‘Do I still?’ Rafa prompts.

Roger’s palm lifts - hovers - then returns to the armrest. ‘Feel those things?’

There’s no reply. The city fills the space. White traffic noise, burbling pigeons, passing sirens. 

The longer the pause lasts, the more the question contains.

Rafa settles on a strict interpretation. ‘Sometimes, when we play, there is a distract, yeah. I watch your tennis, not my own. Then you win a set and I remember why I am there!’

‘You watch my tennis.’ Roger seems piqued.

‘Never I let my feelings get in the way of my career.’ Rafa looks sideways, accusingly. ‘You the same.’

Roger disagrees with both assertions, but he focuses on a faraway building, instead. Then he selects another topic; a far easier bridge to cross. ‘I’m going to see Andy Roddick after this. In Texas. Do my tour of America, you know.’

The warmth is back in Rafa’s reply. ‘Oh yeah? Cool. Say hello. Then everyone is in Chicago, no?’

‘It’s come together well. I’m really pleased.’

‘Well done. Will be as good as last year. Will be better.’

‘We’ll have footage of you up everywhere. “Wanted” posters.’

Rafa laughs and puts his hand over Roger’s. He grips, one indulgent moment, and then retreats.

Roger bites the inside of his lip. Knows that’s the most they’ll have.

Sure enough: ‘I should go.’

Roger nods. ‘You’ve got to prepare for tomorrow.’

‘He’ll be playing well. Will be a tough one.’

‘Not too tough, I hope. I mean—’

‘I know.’ Rafa’s smile can be so reassuring, so generous; whatever jumble of words he’s been offered given the perfect translation. ‘So.’ He stands up to leave and pauses when he reaches Roger. ‘Hasta luego.’

‘Yeah.’

Rafa’s hand lands carefully on his shoulder, imparting only warmth, not heat. Roger meets it briefly — longs to link their fingers, to feel them fit and clasp - but lifts away before the temptation becomes reality. 

Rafa re-sets the tone with a matey pat, and leaves.

Roger closes his eyes. The hotel door clicks, and he’s alone again, for as long he wants. 

He finds he wants it a little longer.

He returns his hand to the part Rafa touched. The brief warmth has faded. There’s no mark left; no imprint, no scar. Nothing to show it happened. 

He breathes in, loudly, frustration setting his jaw. Back when he’d had all he wanted of Rafa, he’d supposed their connection was more elemental than sex, more powerful than touch. In fact, it is profoundly physical. Their bodies are how they communicate, how they shape each other’s lives. Without weekly battles, without monthly conflagrations, the dynamic’s incomplete, the relationship unrealised. 

There’s no point debating which of them formalised the constraints; they’d both seen them gathering tighter every year. One of them had to acknowledge the fetters of their success; the other had to agree. The objective reasons to forego the affair had been bigger than either of them and easy to see. 

But now, every touch feels unfinished; every lingering glance unfulfilled. For a bleak moment, Roger realises that he might never feel complete again— 

But that drop is too deep, so he turns the thought off, and reaches for something better:

They had fucked in New York, at Rafa’s hotel. There’d been a balcony like this, with a hot tub. Yes— he remembered. His groin tingled immediately. God, that had been— he took another deep breath, and relaxed his shoulders — that had been when Rafa had risen slick and hot from the bubbling water: pushed up on his arms, every muscle articulated by movement and shadow. Roger had commanded him to stop; a bolt of joy at being able to; at putting his hands on him, gripping those silky shoulders, smoothing down the sculpted arms, following the gully of his back to the evening’s natural conclusion: Roger’s tongue slotting between his cheeks, face pressed into sweltering skin, opening his lover stroke by stroke. Rafa had been immobilised with pleasure, pushing back brazenly against Roger’s mouth, his enjoyment loud and wordless.

Roger hears those moans again. They’d gone through his spine at the time, tripped the nerves of every limb, gathered in his aching cock. He closes his eyes tighter, and tries to recreate the same complex scents: Rafa’s tropical skin, blood-hot and sweet like almond; the must of saliva and sweat; the slight chemical coating of the water. 

He’d been drugged, really. There was no other way to think about it. Their bodies had simply acted without them; both of them out of their minds on a roar of hormones. 

He’d licked Rafa until he was weak, hole soft and sleek, body hanging over the side, ribs shifting under muscle, panting like a big cat. 

He remembered the almost existential choice about whether to take him from behind — collapsed with desire, trembling with anticipation — or to pull him into the water and facewards, onto Roger’s lap, so his thighs would hold them both as Rafa lost himself, riding Roger’s cock, the hot waves slapping and him gripping Rafa’s black tangle of hair.

Roger had wanted him endlessly. He’d hated any pinch of choice, no matter how small. Even in those days of fantastic abundance, he’d felt there was an alternative future to lose; never known if he was making the best. 

Looking back, those agonies had been so luxurious. They’d only been choosing between gold and the lily.

Roger’s mind wavers. With a quiver of panic, he opens his eyes. He can’t remember how they actually fucked. Gone is the memory, and here’s the reality: a man alone with a hard-on, fading in the dwindling night. 

He replays the images to the last moment in the hot tub and yes, he’s forgotten. All he finds are ideas, approximations. The real men have disappeared from the rest of that night. Where have they gone?

He puts his hand on Rafa’s seat. It’s cool now. The flattened can is the only sign of him.

Roger gets up in disgust and strides back inside. He slams the balcony door and locks it. After pacing the room, he decides to watch some football.

An hour later, he calls Mirka and lets her know he’ll be back with them tonight, if it isn’t too late.

* 

Rafa watches the shadows of passing traffic on the ceiling, Mary dreaming.

The room is lit by the amber streetlights outside; visible enough for Rafa to relax, dark enough for Mary to sleep. It’s a compromise they reached early on. They’re good at accommodating each other. And when they aren’t, Mary leaves the space needed to find the solution. Their relationship is a series of equations, each needing different amounts of time to solve. Most of the time, the solution is elegant, and their connection keeps evolving, into a coherent body of knowledge. Rafa knows he’ll never have the time or luck to find that again. They are made for each other, because they have made themselves for each other.

But Rafa can’t help it — not when it’s quiet, with nothing to distract him. When he’s in New York and he’s just seen Roger. He remembers that time in the hot tub. Remembers how he’d got round Toni; waited for a meeting of the USTA, called in a favour from another coach, asked him awkwardly to keep Toni out, entertain him, past the time his charge would usually go to bed. The coach hadn’t blinked, hadn’t ventured any theories. Rafa’s heart had swooped and then settled.

He’d got a new hotel room and waited for Roger on the bed; then on the sofa; then against the door… Switching places constantly, wiping clammy palms on his jeans; changing his jeans for sweat pants; changing his sweat pants for swim trunks; then starting up the hot tub, creating the conditions for the thing he was afraid to ask for. 

He’d wanted Roger to lick him, tease him, pour all his attention into him. He’d wanted Roger inside him in every way.

They’d met at the door with the usual jubilant kissing, hands running ahead of them, clothes pushed aside so awkwardly they had to stop and laugh and unwedge their joints from the bunched material.

Rafa had showed off that night. He’d lifted out of the water slowly, flexing his arms just right, arching his back so the muscles shimmered in the light. Roger was the only one Rafa showed off to. With him, he was his secret self. He could be vain, demanding, proud; he only got kissed for it. He only got licked and stroked and fucked into oblivion.

Roger had decided Rafa should be on his lap, and they’d tried penetration in the water, but it had stripped the lubrication and the water had got inside Rafa and been fiddly and unpleasant. So, laughing, Roger had taken him to bed instead, and rocked him, steadily — their orgasms delayed by the move indoors, their lust tamped down into something lasting, richer. 

Their faces had been fuller, smoother; their gazes less sharp and knowing. Rafa’s hair had been long and thicker; Roger had twisted it a lot. 

Rafa closes his eyes and returns. He feels butter-soft skin, lips, looks; the peppery burn of shaved faces pressing; the utter satisfaction of Roger filling him to the hilt; their steady motion carrying each other to disparate but simultaneous bliss; a lust-sucked bruise, a hint of teeth. So perfectly close, so indecently happy.

After, Roger had played with his hair. A worry had darkened his eyes as he realised the situation he was in. ‘I love you,’ he’d confided; no great surprise to either of them. Then he’d said something Rafa hadn’t understood. ‘I think I love you beyond repair.’

Rafa had frowned; asked what did he mean?

Roger had shaken his head; just pulled him closer.

Back then, Rafa had assumed his English had failed him. But now, he understands.


	2. Leave The War With Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is angsty. No fluff. Just a romantic interpretation of the current events.  
> I am writing a separate, more escapist, fic - for those who've Had It with real life tennis! That includes me ;-)

* * *

And where do we go?  
And I'm leaning towards  
Losing my mind with this feeling no more

* * *

**New York to Mallorca**

Rafa leaves New York with a wistful Instagram post. High from a hotel, face turned away, looking through the window and down avenues of glass. 

His pose is much the same during the transatlantic flight: face pressed on the plastic, staring along the glass sky to the earth’s deep blue curve.

His thoughts float, before he can stop himself, into fantasies of winning the deciding match for Spain in the upcoming Davis Cup tie against France. He already knows his injury has stripped him of that chance, and — if he’s honest — Spain’s chance as well. Without their ferocious frontrunner, or a clay court, the Spanish squad lacks presence. 

It will be the last time that Spain play the traditional Davis Cup format. Missing it feels like falling out of history, rather than commemorating its passing. 

As much as he dislikes losing, it’s being out of the game which troubles him most. He knows the steps for rehab, he knows that he can win again — but in the meantime, Novak will hoover up titles, the Next Gen will become stronger, and journalists will go back to debating when Nadal should retire. 

Hopefully, he’ll spring back after a few weeks: a bull let out of his corral to flatten those doubters into dust. 

But every year, the climb back gets steeper. And in the meantime, he has to live a suspended life; putting in the work without seeing the rewards, keeping faith in progress while there’s no chance to prove himself. 

Preparation and recovery is like cruising; the miles go by without much sensation other than boredom and hope. But what he lives for is the thrust and thrill of takeoff.

He browses the latest movies.

He dozes.

*

There’s time for a decent dinner in Madrid, before the group scatters and Rafa, Moyá, and Titín complete their continental hop with a late flight to Palma. Rafa’s mother comes to collect them. She wraps her son in smiles and soothing hands and he feels all soft again, very young. He sits next to her in the front of the car and fiddles with the radio stations as they drive the smooth night roads back home.

*

The daylight slices through the blinds and into Rafa’s mind. It’s earlier than he wanted to wake but the idea of a lungful of island air followed by lengths of his pool is more seductive than sleep, is its own kind of restoration. The patio tiles are warming. Thousands of ants follow shaded routes on their daily commute to the flower beds. Rafa inspects. The gardener has put in some new climbers, and cut back some shrubs. He doesn’t know the names of things, but appreciates nonetheless. 

There are a few autumn leaves in the pool, but the air still holds the chalky heat of late summer, and when Rafa swims on his back it is blue below, blue above. He lets his thoughts float out of him and into the sky. Once all are present, he arranges them into categories, which collapse and sort neatly away. He has a “to think” list more than a “to do” list. For the most part his actions are predetermined by tournament schedules and corporate requirements; his team breaks them down and delivers them to him like Department Heads to a CEO. Or like bitesized food to an infant. Sometimes it’s hard to tell whether he’s one of the most powerful or infantalised men in the world. Either way, the skill of his role isn’t knowing what to do; it’s selecting what to think.

And recently, he’s been realising how much things with Roger have complicated that. 

The cultured part of him savours the poetry of their history, the way massive victories have always been complemented with subtle intimacies, the way their connection has layered year on year, like minerals in a rock. He couldn’t have imagined such good fortune; to achieve all that he had, against an antagonist who made it mean so much.

But a plainer part of him prefers his rivalry with Djokovic; that clean, uncomplicated, desire to dominate and deny. Not having to hold a painful balance between personal relationships and public relations. Not having to hide in plain sight,or complicate what should be simple.

*

Moyá and Titín come over to Rafa’s later. Benito’s waiting on Skype. Toni’s already there, glaring at an article about rumoured Barça transfers. Though that isn’t the topic of today’s meeting.

Rafa makes the coffees while the coach and physio catch up with Toni and settle themselves round the kitchen table. They thank their host as he places their drinks precisely in front of them. He knows their orders perfectly. Then he takes his own chair and the quintet is complete.

‘So,’ Toni begins. 

Benito nods through the screen. ‘Davis Cup.’

Moyá raises his eyebrows and sucks his teeth.

Benito gives a brief summary. ‘Not good coverage at the moment. Seems like a mess. Fine for us to say we’re not involved. But now Federer is saying we need to put our heads together.’ 

Rafa rubs his forehead; starting with his fingertips, ending with it disappeared behind his palm.

Toni’s arms cross. ‘First he says he doesn’t know what he thinks about the changes, let’s wait and see, give it a chance. But he’s clearly not a fan. Going after Piqué in public.’

Benito adjusts course to something more neutral. ‘That was before. They were looking at the Laver Cup week, so he got pulled in.’

‘Well, now it’s decided for November. So?’ Toni opens his palms, inviting an explanation. ‘He keeps his Laver Cup week. What’s the problem?’

Moyá flicks his eyebrows ironically. ‘Besides everything?’

Benito expands. ‘The problem for us is that the press keep asking everyone about the changes. Tempers fray. People can’t stick to their script. Then Roger says he needs to lead a meeting with the top players, and “sort out the tour”.’

Toni gives a derisive laugh. For all his admiration of Federer’s game, any sign of self-importance aggravates him. ‘Can’t fault his ambition.’

Moyá shrugs. ‘He’s right, though. People go where he plays. Where Rafa plays. And Novak.’

Toni hunches down. ‘Not forever, though.’

Moyá continues. ‘Where’s Novak’s team on this?’

Benito speaks. ‘Hard to reach. But that’s not the main point. Look, I want the changes to work but they might not. So we have to keep our head above water.’ 

‘It’s not our responsibility.’

‘But it could look that way because of the Spanish connection.’

Toni sweeps any imagined criticism away. ‘No one can say Spain doesn’t love the Davis Cup, okay? Or Rafel. Shit. Look at our participation.’

‘Yeah,’ Moyá challenges, ‘but Benito’s saying let’s keep clear of the debate, make the distinction between us and Kosmos clear. Rafa's not aligning himself.’

They seem to have settled into their roles: Moyá, the ex-player, here to see Roger’s point of view. Benito here to map the various views, and then chart the course. Toni, obsessively independent, here to protect his nephew’s reputation. Or maybe just argue the point that most interests him today.

And Rafa? He hates this already. Has been hating this for months. He almost thinks he’s got a backache, just from this conversation. Though he knows it’s necessary. Navigating tennis politics is like boating; you’ve got to know the rocks below. If you think ahead, and go cautiously, you sail into open water. If you refuse to navigate, the next thing you hear is a rip in the hull. He knows from experience.

Points of view established, Benito focuses on the resolution. ‘If Federer says he wants to talk, we can. No problem with a conversation. Better for tennis, et cetera.’ 

Moyá sips his coffee, considering the proposition. ‘I think it is, actually.’

Toni’s not having it. ‘What is there to say? We see whether it works or not. No point talking about it ’til then. Sorry if the media is annoying him. They annoy Rafel, too.’

Titín — silent until then — gives Rafa a tentative look. ‘Have you talked about it with him?’

Rafa’s long shrug could mean “no”, or “yes” or “it’s complicated”. They all know to wait a little longer, if they want a comment. ‘Well,’ Rafa starts, picking an honest yet edited route through his feelings. ‘We haven’t seen each other very much. When we do, it’s…good to keep it social. There’s enough stress on tour.’

Toni translates. ‘So you haven’t.’

‘Not directly. Maybe…things aren’t great between us right now. If we let every public debate dominate our— when we see each other, we’d be back in 2012, no?’

Titín’s interested in Rafa’s subdued tone. He tries to sound neutral, but he’s such a nice guy that the sympathy leaks through. ‘Why aren’t things good between you?’

Rafa holds his gaze for a fraction too long, so Titín really understands. Then he answers in general. ‘This and that. Ups and downs.’

_Work husbands_ , his sister had once teased, while they were on the Players’ Council together… Obviously Rafa had given her the most patronising look of disapproval in his arsenal. That collaboration had ended in divorce; probably the most destructive encounters in his and Roger’s history. Successive Slam final losses couldn’t have done the same amount of damage as those last few months butting heads over ATP politics. It was a clash both had been scared to repeat. Nowadays, they skirted the issues.

But the Laver Cup had got him wondering, years later, if maybe him and Roger could have been good colleagues, in another life. The experience had proved how well they worked on the same team: winning their doubles without a practice, and Roger last playing two years ago; reading out for constant connection; so thrilled to experience each other’s energy. One of the joys of the Laver was answering the players’ year-long thirst for team bonding, and none of them (the internet commented with glee) had seemed more thirsty than the two at the top.

But he just couldn’t imagine a world where he and Roger weren’t both possessed by the need to win. And there was no reality where Roger was worth more to Rafa than his tennis career. He knew, with certainty, Roger felt the same. Rafa couldn’t have wanted him otherwise. Theirs wasn’t the unconditional bond of families. It was the exact and unrepeatable fusion of time and chance; ignited by chemistry, forged in battle, textured by suffering.

Toni was impatient for lunch. ‘So, when are we going to talk, then? Whole teams, or just low-key?’

Titín looked at Rafa. ‘Maybe better to start with a personal approach?’

Rafa sighed. ‘Sure. I’ll ask him.’

Benito finishes the agenda with queuing up social media for the following month. The sponsorship links are planned in advanced and usually come with a prescribed text, but Rafa also likes to check his personal messages before he puts them out. He hates running a gamut of negative publicity, and it’s maddeningly easy to have the slightest comment misinterpreted — especially in a third language. 

But apart from the Davis Cup reforms, there isn’t anything controversial to be aware of. The only things planned are something for the Spanish tourist board, some injury-recovery updates, and confirmation of a long-planned Saudi exhibition match.

*

There aren’t many things Rafa procrastinates, but he can admit that confrontation is one. Before he speaks to Roger, he tries to educate himself on his rival’s recent comments. He doesn’t tend to watch pressers or read news reports. It isn’t a wise use of time, when his team can filter all that and present only what he needs to know. The Spanish media isn’t always in Rafa’s favour, but it’s a veritable awards ceremony compared to the British press. Unfortunately, that’s where Roger has given his interview. Rafa clicks his way past “SHOCK” claims made by former number ones, “WARNING”s given by Novak Djokovic, and “RETIREMENT” predications about Roger. 

Eventually, he finds the article. It’s in a reputable newspaper, but he needs an account to sign in. Why hasn’t he asked Benito to do this for him? Now all Rafa has to show for his efforts is a renewed paranoia about how his comments are interpreted, and a search history full of “Federer”. 

The result of which is a takeover of his browser with Roger’s new Rimowa adverts: strolling across airport tarmac with coffee and weekend suitcase, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Probably waiting for his latest trophy to arrive. The stylist has worked with Roger’s receding hairline to part a chestnut sweep to the side. The length of stubble is just right on him; brings out the character of his eyebrows, and invites your eyes to his lips. 

Rafa closes the tabs and unlocks his personal phone.  _Just met with my team. They say you want to talk about the Davis Cup things_. Then adds _:-)_

It isn’t until later that Rafa gets a reply. _Hey, hope you’re well. Yes I do but is a bigger conversation than us two. Need Novak as well. Talking to him this weekend._

Rafa frowns at his phone, just answers, _Okay_ , and puts it face-down. On TV it’s Tiger Woods in Atlanta and he’s close to winning the PGA Tour. Or there’s a good Liga match, with Sevilla already 3-1 up and looking to score some more. Or even, the Laver Cup. 

He could lie here all day, watching other people do things.

*

The next day he’s at the Academy when Roger sends a follow-up message. Rafa glances at it while chatting with some students. _How is the knee?_

Rafa rounds off his social duties, then leans against the edge of a chain-link court fence. He’s about to reply when a follow-up arrives from Roger:  _At Laver now._

Now they’re on their phone at the same time, Rafa relaxes. _I know. On break?_

_Middle of a match ;-)_

_Yours?_

_Ha ha          Yeah          Set point_

_Yours?_

_Yeah          Just catch up on some business while I decide where to serve…_

_Out wide_

_Did it too much already. Body, I think._

_Who you playing?_

There’s a break which shows Roger typing. Then it stops.

After a wait, Rafa supplies the next step; such as it is. _Knee is normal injury only          But cannot play Asia_

_Sorry, was distracted         And sorry about Asia          Thought it could be probably the best time to talk. I was going to get in touch. Shame it came from your team first._

Rafa thinks: team only knew because you announced it in a global newspaper... Rafa writes: _Is the_ _normal thing, don’t worry_

The phone shows Roger typing, then pausing, then typing. But all that comes through is _I’ll be in touch._ Then, _Good luck with recovery :-)_

And there’s nothing to say other than _Thanks_

Or maybe it could have been any word.

*

The rest of the day passes slowly. He’s listless. There are plans in place, plenty of people to see — but it’s not the kind busyness he likes; it’s not that onward flow of progress, directed by his ambitions. It’s more a “keeping busy” — matching tasks to hours like numbers to bingo squares.

Success is an equation, but sometimes it’s hard to remember how it balances. Easier to think unscientifically instead. Other players have crosses and prayers against overwhelming situations; offer up their needs and achievements to unseen powers. Whereas Rafa only relies on himself. Sometimes people mistake his earth-bound rituals for superstition. No. They’re the opposite; a reminder that only he is in control. 

But it’s still tempting to feel wronged. Judged. To believe that a mischievous fate has an eye on him; ready to snip the thread of his success as soon as he gets too close. That bitter gush of disappointment, that sense of wanting to blame. It’s tidal. It first rose in Australia, during his Quarter Final retirement against Čilić. So rare for him to be infuriated in public, throwing his things back in his bag with disgust. The same feeling sways through him now; invitingly irrational. The idea that the equation has been corrupted in some way. That this year’s injuries are some karmic cost for playing winning tennis. 

Because his game’s been very fine this year. He’s enjoyed what he’s seen of himself, in matches won and lost. He’s been canny, calm, aggressive. Elegant at the net and sure from the baseline. Able to switch from clay to grass; going so deep at Wimbledon with no tune-up tournament. He’s been playing adaptably, creatively. He’s reached for the heights he deserves. And his body has betrayed him.

At times like this, he feels divided. His physique isn’t the wonderful gift which got him this far; it’s the faulty machine he can never rely on. His story isn’t a testament to unrelenting dedication and self-belief; it’s a cautionary tale of what happens when you play professional sport with a congenital disorder. 

He’s a star on the wrong trajectory, several light years short of its true destination. If others have more potential than him, let them fulfil it. He doesn’t begrudge them their place in the sky. What sickens him is that he couldn’t reach his.

If only… If only… If only…

This is the lament he avoids, though he hears it with piercing clarity. Worse still, he can’t complain. His blessings make a mockery of his sorrows. Very few understand that trap. That's not something he can complain about, either.

*

Andy texts him from Shenzhen, with updates about his own recovery. Andy’s always been a touchstone. Similar physical issues, grouchy press treatment, unfair criticism for his efforts. Except he’s also had to deal with the national hype of being a British tennis saviour. Rafa’s thankful he dodged that. He was only seen as the obscure island underdog, until it was already too late and he was taking chunks out of the tour.

They message for a bit — mainly bitching about the Davis Cup mess — and then set a time to play Fifa Championship Manager after Andy’s returned from China. Lastly, Andy tells him to watch some Laver Cup highlights. Apparently they’re good — and all the better this year, according to Andy, for not having to see Rafa’s ridiculous facial expressions and underpants every other point.

Andy’s right; it’s good. The event is a success for a second year in a row and that establishes it as a fixture, not just a novelty. And Rafa didn’t have to be there to make it good. It’s got longevity. He’s pleased for Roger, and everyone who’ll play it in future. He’s pleased and envious at the same time.

He watches the highlights of each match. He’s especially satisfied when Federer dismantles Kyrgios, 6-3 6-2. That was classic Roger. Not just the tennis — the kind of aerial display Federer sometimes gives to remind everyone the legends are true — but also the lesson in respect. _This_ , Roger seems to say, _is what you aspire to_. So for all the times Nick’s snarked about Rafa, he feels grateful to Roger for the public slap-down.

In between matches they show outtakes of the 2017 event. Inevitably, the two Rs feature prominently. He’s seen the footage before, but since then blocked it from his mind.

Watching themselves together again is like sinking into a hot bath. A luxury suspension of routine; something he could get used to. It unfurls a kindred relief in him, too. Having Roger grip him, hold him, reach for him. Pour his gaze into him, in front of thousands. Daring him to reciprocate. Which he thought he’d resisted, thought he’d ignored — until he sees the things he wasn’t conscious of.

He isn’t concerned by his exuberant shouting, jumping, embracing…all those things people hash-tagged and memed. Those are just Latin celebrations. 

What matters is what’s between them. The incline of his head, the jokes to secure Roger's attention, the impatience when he isn’t there, the brimful of excitement when they’re rejoined. 

That old devotion.  _If I know where you are, then I know where I am._

But it’s been a year since then. A year of separation, of politics, of tension. 

So where are they, now?


End file.
